Quiet Town (4 page)

“Not unless you want to.” Bearcat Annie was looking at Dusty with even more interest now. “The Town Council were a mite over-eager to take you on. I didn’t get time to say if I approved.”

“Your man came in and got out-voted, ma’am.”

“So I heard. I sent another man down to the jail to ask you to come along and see me. He isn’t back yet.”

“Nor won’t be, ma’am,” Dusty replied. “He’s in jail.”

Bearcat Annie frowned again. Her eyes were not friendly as she looked Dusty over. “What charge?”

‘I’m calling it disturbing the peace.”

“He’s lucky to be alive now,” Mark went on. “Any man who tries to run a blazer on a lawman asks for all he gets.”

The crowd stood watching everything. Bearcat Annie’s place was not only the biggest and most garish in Quiet Town, it also was known as the toughest. Bearcat Annie herself was said to be the power behind the town and to have the ability to remove anyone who crossed her. They all waited to see how she handled these young looking Texans who now wore the badges of Quiet Town’s police force.

“You like to take a drink?” she asked.

“Not while we’re working, ma’am,” Dusty replied.

“All right. The pickings are good for a lawman in Quiet Town. If he knows how to act. How much pay are you taking in?”

“Enough, ma’am. One rule I always learned. Take pay from only one boss at a time. That way a man lives to draw it longer.”

“Dusty being brought up polite doesn’t say it, ma’am,” Mark went on, “but we don’t take bribes.”

Bearcat Annie scowled. There was real anger in her eyes although she held her temper in control. “You don’t. That is a change among lawmen. I’ll, pay the fine for my boy. From now on don’t put any man who works for me in jail. I don’t like it.”

“Ma’am, I’ll jail any man I want,” Dusty replied. “If any more of your men try to run a blazer on me they’re going to wish they hadn’t.”

The saloon owner watched the three young Texans walk from the room. She glanced at the groaning man Dusty had knocked over the table, then at the unconscious bouncer. With a contemptuous jerk of her head she ordered them taken out back then went up the stairs again.

On the street Doc looked at Dusty. “A man’d say you knew that big gent in the saloon.”

“Was my farrier in the Texas Light,” Dusty answered. “Say one thing, that blonde gal’s real fast thinking.”

“Meaning?” Doc asked looking at Dusty again, seeing far more than he had first realised. Dusty was more than just good with a gun.

“Like this. A lawman in any town stands or falls on the way the folks back him. That play there was rigged to try me out. Dammed near everybody who knows Cy Bollinger for over a week knows how mean he gets when he’s riled. She figured that I’d either kill Cy, who never goes armed, or back down. Either way I lose respect of some of the town.”

“Man’d say you gave her a surprise,” Doc chuckled. “I know one thing. You sure handed one to me.”

They arrived at the jail and heard a woman’s voice raised in anger inside. “I’m warning you, Cy Bollinger. I’ve just about took all I aim to. Going in that fat hussy’s place and getting arrested for brawling!”

Dusty, Mark and Doc entered to hear Bollinger spluttering feeble attempts at apologising while the big, buxom, good looking woman told him what she thought of him. She was a black haired woman wearing a cheap gingham dress which emphasised a figure as rich and full as Bearcat Annie’s. Turning she stopped, then smiled a greeting at Dusty.

“Why howdy Cap’n Fog, sir.” Her voice dropped to a polite note which contrasted with the strident tones she had used to her husband. “I’m sure Cy didn’t mean any disrespect down there. He was led astray by them evil bunch.”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Bollinger, ma’am,” Dusty removed his hat and held out his hand towards her.

Maggie Bollinger rubbed her palms against her frock then took Dusty’s hands, blushing in a manner which would have amazed her friends. She was never able to get used to a famous man like Captain Fog treating her with respect and politeness.

“How about Cy, Cap’n?”

“There’s no charge against him. But Cy—.”

“Yes sir, Cap’n,” Bollinger answered, stiffening up again.

“You cause trouble again and I’ll bounce you the length of Lee Street by the ears. Understand?”

“Yes sir, Cap’n.” Bollinger had never really understood the strange fighting techniques of
karate
and
ju-jitsu
Ole Devil Hardin’s Nipponese servant, Tommy Okasi, taught Dusty. What Bollinger did know was they rendered Dusty well capable of doing just what he said. “I’ll behave.”

“And I’ll see that he does,” Maggie Bollinger warned grimly. “Come on home, you.”

Cy Bollinger followed his wife from the room still trying to explain how he came to be in Bearcat Annie’s place. The door shut and Dusty looked at the others. “See what it’s like to be married.”

“Sure, that’s why I’m staying single,” Rusty agreed.

Dusty chuckled. He knew the Bollingers were a happily married couple and devoted to each other. It was only when something like this came up that their happiness was marred.

“How’s the prisoner?” Mark asked.

“Bedded down real comfortable. The Judge came by. Says he’ll be back to tell you how much the fine is, Dusty,” the Kid replied. “That gambling man sure handles a real mean broom.”

The jail was cleaner, the weapons in the racks looking more serviceable than before. Outside word was going the rounds of the town as men told of what happened in Bearcat Annie’s Saloon. The general feeling was that at last Quiet Town was going to have some law.

CHAPTER POUR

“I’LL RAISE!” Mark Counter said the words of wisdom as he studied his cards. “And if you’ve got those three kings again I’m going to look on you with dire suspicion.”

Doc Leroy, the dealer, shrugged his shoulders. “T’ain’t worth me trying to put them back. I’d only have to get them out again next deal.”

It was the morning of their second day in office as the law of Quiet Town. The town remained quiet for the night, people not wanting to be the first to try out those soft talking but fast moving young men any further. Word of who the town marshal was went out. The gunhandy men of the town knew Dusty Fog’s reputation and were willing to wait for someone to go against him first. The miners, for the most part not gunfighters, were content to wait and see how he treated them. The rest of the town heard of how Bearcat Annie failed and stayed their hands, withholding any judgment until they knew what changes their new Marshal meant to bring.

Dusty leaned by the wall watching the poker, game between his four deputies. Doc Leroy’s slim, boneless looking hands were fast, he knew how to manipulate a deck of cards. By dint of fetching cards from the bottom, middle or just under the top card, Doc was winning. The jail was empty now, the gambler’s fine having been paid he was set free.

The door of the office opened and a tall, slim young woman entered. Her hat was pushed back from her short cropped brown hair. Her face was tanned, pretty and without any beauty aids to try and make it look better. The buckskin coat could not hide the rich curves of her body. Her tartan shirt was loose fitting but the swell of her breasts forced against it. She wore a pair of tight fitting blue jeans, tucked into fancy decorated high heeled boots. Around her slim waist was a gunbelt with an ivory handled Navy Colt in the holster. The men looked at her, coming to their feet. Dusty was watching her face, reading something in it, a grief which lined her eyes and made her lips tight.

“Is this how the law earns its pay?” Her voice was a gentle southern drawl made hard as she looked them over.

“No, ma’am,” the Kid replied. “We only plays poker when we’re not sleeping. Which same’s near on all the time.”

“And while you’re sleeping or playing poker folks are getting backshot in the hills.”

The lounging manner left Dusty, and he came away from the wall. “Where, when, who and how?” he snapped, then before she could answer turned to his deputies. “Mark, Lon and Doc’ll go with me. Go snake my paint out and saddle him for me. We’ll pull out in five minutes. Now, ma’am, tell it, please.”

The girl’s face showed held down grief and her voice fought to stay hard. “My pappy, over to Dutchy Schulze’s place. I’ll take you. Where’s Webber at?”

“Who ma’am?” Dusty and the girl were alone now, Mark and the others having left to get the horses ready.

“The old marshal?”

“He retired. I’m the new marshal. You’d best tell me all you can as we ride out of town.”

The girl looked Dusty over, comparing him with Webber. She looked around the clean office and knew that here was a man she could rely on.

“I’m Roxie Delue,” she said and turned. “My hoss’s out front, I’ll get him and meet you on the street.”

Dusty went out back to find his big paint stallion saddled ready and his short Winchester carbine in the saddleboot. The Kid was already afork his huge white stallion and Doc was swinging into the kak of his black. Dusty mounted his paint and grinned at Mark. “Don’t let that big blonde gal scare you off,
amigo
.”

The girl was afork a spirited looking bay gelding and rode astride with easy grace. She did not offer to speak as they rode from town, holding the horses at an easy trot. People watched them go by and there was some speculation about where the new Marshal and his two deputies were riding.

“Didn’t tell me your name,” Roxie Delue remarked.

“Dusty Fog,” Dusty replied. “This’s the Ysabel Kid and Doc Leroy.

The girl looked at him for a moment. She was a girl born and raised in the West and knew some of the top-guns. She knew that this small man was just who he claimed to be. Roxie felt relieved; her ride to town had been made with little or no hope of getting help from the local law. Now she knew that everything possible would be done to get the man or men who killed her father.

“Like I said, I’m Roxie Delue. My pappy ran a freight haulage company. We’re only small, four wagons. We were up to Dutchy Schulze’s place, just pappy and me this morning. We went to the cabin to call Dutchy and there was a shot. Pappy dropped. I didn’t see who fired the shot.”

“Your pappy have any enemies?” Dusty asked.

“A few. Some of the old timers. But they wouldn’t go up against him from behind. They’d stack again pappy from the front. Besides, we’ve not been here long and none of pappy’s old enemies are up this ways.”

They were riding through the hill country now, the girl leading them along a winding wagon trail. Here and there could be seen the raw gashes and the tunnels of mines in the sides of the hills. Some of the mines were being worked, others stood empty and deserted. Faintly came the sound of an explosion as some miner blasted his way deeper into the earth.

“How about the gang that’s been hitting at the other freighting companies?” the Kid inquired.

“For new boys you surely got to know things,” Roxie remarked admiringly. “It might have been them but I don’t see why. They tried to hit at us once. We’ve got a hard bunch working for us and we never run our wagons singly. Why’d that bunch want to kill pappy?”

“Be real stupid,” Doc agreed. “Just to drop a man when there was nothing to steal from him.”

“Maybe,” Dusty said looking at the girl, seeing how she was fighting down her grief. “Figger it this way. This is the last freight outfit. With the boss gone it might fold up. Then the miners can’t move their ore, can’t ship in fresh mining equipment or supplies. Suppose there was another freight outfit waiting to come in here and take over. The hold-ups and the killing would make sense then.”

“You could be right at that,” Roxie agreed. “Without our wagons the miners would have been in tight by now. But I’m going to keep them rolling. Say! We had a dude come to see us just after we moved up here. Wanted to buy us out. Pappy told him where to go and he got uppy. Pappy showed him the business end of a Dragoon Colt. That ole dude took off fast, went faster’n I’ve seen anybody go since the day I dropped a live rattler on the floor of the school in Lil Rock.”

“You know,” the Kid remarked, guessing that the girl was holding her emotions in check and wanting to help take her mind off her troubles. “I figgered you were from Arkansas.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Roxie bristled back.

“Waal, it warn’t your fault you weren’t born in Texas.”

“It sure was,” she replied heatedly. “I was three months late being born. All ‘cause we were in Texas at the time. I just wouldn’t get borned until we crossed the Arkansas line. I’d as soon been born a Yankee.”

Dusty grinned at the girl. “Waal, I can’t say Texas’ lost on the deal. See now why the Yankees never bothered to reconstruct Arkansas.”

The talk died off for a time as they rode along. Dusty and the Kid were both noting where the various mines lay. They were town law and strictly speaking this was out of their jurisdiction. However they were taking a hand because there was no other law willing to do it. They might never need to know how the land lay around the town but if they did this would be a good chance to see some of it.

Roxie watched the men, knowing they were trying to help her forget for a time the deep and gnawing agony of grief which filled her. More to stop herself from breaking down than for any other reason she started to talk. “We were running our outfit from the Kansas railheads down into Arkansas. Then some Pawnee renegades jumped us and killed maw. Pappy was never the same after it. He couldn’t stand working in Arkansas any more and when we heard about this strike we came up here. Was making things pay us and now this.”

Dusty reached over and gently squeezed the girl’s shoulder. He felt hard firm muscle in the arm and then said softly, “We’ll do all we can to get the man who did it.”

“I know that without being told,” she answered. “Don’t worry. I’m not the crying sort.”

They topped a ridge and she stopped the horse, her breath drawing in sharply. In the valley below was a mine tunnel and a small log cabin. By the cabin stood a Conestoga wagon and in the small corral a team of mules and a couple of horses. The girl was looking at none of these, her eyes were on a blanket covered shape on the ground by the wagon. She started her horse forward and the others followed her. The Ysabel Kid scanned the rock strewn slope which rose sheer at the other side of the valley. It would be a good place for a man to lay up in ambush but he could see no-one although every instinct warned him all was not well.

Men came from the cabin, three of them, one behind the other. The first was a tall, wide shouldered miner. His hair was blond and cropped short, his face handsome. He was a fine physical specimen; Dusty guessed him to be almost as tall as Mark and nearly as well built. The man’s cheeks bore small scars and Dusty guessed at their cause.

Behind him came a short, scar faced Mexican wearing the dress of the Texas border country and looking alien in this northern range. He wore a gunbelt but the holster and knife sheath was empty. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and his face was bruised.

Pushing the Mexican forward urgently was a tall, dark haired young man. He was handsome, his face tanned by the elements and although it was a cheerful face there were hard, bitter lines to be seen by a man as knowledgeable as Dusty Fog. The young man wore a dark blue cavalry campaign hat, fringed buckskin shirt and trousers. Around his waist was a gunbelt, a knife sheathed at the left and an Army Colt butt forward at the right. He halted and looked at the newcomers with some interest, his hat coming off.

“Who is this, Miss Delue?” the big blond man asked, his voice having just a trace of an accent.

“The new town marshal, Dutchy.” Roxie tore her eyes away from the still, blanket-covered shape.

“New marshal?” Dutchy Schulze turned and looked at the unarmed Mexican. “Then you want this man.”

“Caught this rattler on the rim back there.” The other man apparently decided he owed Dusty an explanation for his presence. “Was lining up on Dutchy here when I happened along. I brought him down here.”

“Looks like he fell down the rim,” Dusty remarked drily, looking at the bruised face. “Doc, you know what I want?”

Doc nodded. From his saddlepouch he took an oilskin roll which contained a small set of surgical instruments. A few years before he had been a medical student and now was frequently putting his learning to good use. He went to the blanket-covered form and lifted the covering up. With a bullet probe in his hands he set to work to remove the bullet, trying to prevent the girl seeing.

The Mexican stood silent and sullen. His eyes went to the Ysabel Kid with something like fascination in them. Then he lowered his gaze to the ground once more. Dusty glanced at the Mexican then to the buckskin-clad young man, taking in the Sioux moccasins on his feet. “Tell it friend.”

“The name’s Day, call me Happy Day. I was riding scout for the Army until I came down here. Came up on the Mexican lining a Sharps on Dutchy here. Threw down on the Mex and brought him here. Me ‘n’ Dutchy talked to him but he’s some quiet.”

“Sharps, huh?” Dusty glanced at the saddle, laying on its side by the cabin door. It was a Cheyenne roll and a Henry rifle showed from the boot. “That your saddle?”

The Texans dismounted and left their horses standing free. Roxie swung down out of her saddle and faced the Mexican, her eyes hard. She did not speak but waited to see how Dusty handled the situation.

“Check the rifle there, Lon,” Dusty ordered when Happy Day nodded.

The Kid went to the saddle and looked down. The saddle-boot was made for a Henry rifle and would have been too short for a Sharps. Straightening up the young Texan returned to Dusty’s side just as Doc joined them. Holding out a bullet Doc said, “Looks about right for either a Sharps or a Spencer rifle.”

Roxie moved forward, her hand dropping to lift clear the Navy Colt. “You killed nay pappy!” she hissed. “Who sent you to do it?”

The Mexican did not move or reply. With a gasp of anger Roxie lined the gun, her thumb easing back the hammer. Dusty reached forward and gently pushed her arm down again. “That’s not going to get your question answered, ma’am.”

The breath came from Roxie’s lungs in a gasp. She still held the gun and her lips quivered as she fought down her desire to kill this man. The Ysabel Kid jerked his head towards the wagon. “Lash him to the wheel, then we’ll make us some talk.”

Dutchy Schulze reached out, gripping the Mexican and half carrying him to the wagon, slamming him against one wheel. Happy Day moved in, taking a rope from the back of the wagon and lashing the Mexican into place.

“Get that bullwhip, ma’am,” Happy said, his voice gentle. Roxie picked the long whip up, curling the lash in her hands. She knew how to handle a whip well enough. Looking at the blanket which covered her father’s body she snapped. “I’ll do it.”

“It’s no chore for a lady, ma’am,” Happy answered.

Clenching her fists Roxie glared at the young man. She was close to tears and fought to stop them coming. “Don’t you call me no lady. I ain’t a lady and I’ll fight the lot of you all at once or one at a time to prove it.”

“Sure, ma’am,” Happy Day agreed, taking the whip from her, his voice calm and gentle. “Maybe it’d be better if you went in the cabin for a piece, ma’am.”

To the surprise of the other men, Roxie allowed Happy Day to take her to the cabin. Inside she threw herself on to Dutchy’s bed and sobs wracked her slim frame as the reaction set in. Happy Day watched for a moment, then returned to the other men. He lifted the whip and brought the lash snaking out in front of him.

The Mexican still did not show a sign of fear. He knew these gringos would not kill him and the people he worked for would pay him well for his silence. He met Happy Day’s eyes with a mocking sneer on his face.

“Blacksnaking won’t make him talk,” the Ysabel Kid remarked gently, coming to stand by the Mexican.

“Then turn him loose and I will break him with my bare hands,” Dutchy Schulze suggested.

“Nope, that won’t do any good, either,” the Kid answered. “This here’s a real tough
hombre
. He’s from Sonora, ain’t you?”

“
Si, señor.
” The Mexican looked at this Indian dark boy and remembering something which made him more scared than fear of a whipping could.

“Them Sonora boys are all real tough, friend,” the Kid’s voice was mild. In his faultless Spanish he went on, “How do they call you?”

“Juan Sebastion.”

“I am
el Cabrito
!” The Kid’s voice was still mild. “Why did you kill the man?”

The change in the Mexican was immediate and a touching tribute to the reputation of the Ysabel Kid. There was real fear in the man’s eyes and showing on his face.
El Cabriro
was a name to be feared in Mexico. It was not a name to give a prisoner joy or peace of mind.

“I don’t know what you—.”

The Ysabel Kid’s right hand moved and the bowie knife came out. “You boys just take a walk round the cabin there.”

Dusty watched all this. He had seen the awe the Mexican border peons held his friend in. This one here certainly was in keeping with that awe. “
No señor. No
!” Frenzied eyes turned to Dusty. “You are lawman. You can’t let them do it to me.”

“Tell us what we want to know!” The Kid’s voice was hard now.

“It was Bronco Calhoun—.”

Happy Day moved forward, the hard, bitter lines more in evidence. “Bronco Calhoun?” his voice grated with hate. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying,
señor
!” the Mexican screamed. “Bronco Calhoun told me to kill the old man with the wagon. Then I moved around to try and get the miner.”